


The Price of Good

by DrivelLegion



Category: Star Trek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 10:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23349757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrivelLegion/pseuds/DrivelLegion
Summary: "Captain's log: Stardate 41194.5.It is my first day as captain of the USS Olympic. Ordinarily the day would begin with a brief ceremony before introductions to the crew are made. However, festivities have been postponed until the completion of our first mission. We have been dispatched to the Miltonis system to take on duties originally assigned to the USS Mauretania. The aging Excelsior-class vessel has suffered an engine failure, and will no longer be able to make its scheduled appointment at Miltonis VII. As the only Federation vessel in range, we will take over her duties. The Mauretania had been set to examine Miltonis VII. Their government has expressed interest in joining the Federation. We are to collect information regarding their industry and internal systems of governance, then report our findings to the Federation. Little is known about the Miltonians, though they have expressed no hostility. The mission is expected to be a simple affair, yet I cannot shake a feeling of trepidation. The nearer we get to the system, the greater my worries become. I have full confidence in my crew and their abilities, but with nothing to go on but their personnel files I have doubts in my ability to properly utilize them."
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

Captain Jason Baxter sat at the desk in his quarters, his fingers interlocked across his chest. His thumbs spun circles around one another, as they always did when he was deep in thought. He stared distantly at the intricate model set on his shelf, a perfect scale replica of an early 20th century passenger liner. It was the RMS Olympic, the ship for which his own had been been named. Baxter had built the model during in his youth, back in the days before his hands shook too fiercely for the hobby to remain enjoyable.

He smiled to himself. He had been thinking of his youth as if it were some far-off event, something he had left behind long ago, but he was barely over thirty-seven years old now. His brown hair lacked any trace of gray, and his face bore only the wrinkles in his forehead. It was far too early in his life to be complaining of hand shakes and morning pains. Even so, he found that such things had begun to irritate him more and more as time passed by. He made a mental note to bring up these ailments to Doctor Norton when the door chime sounded.

"Enter," said the captain.

The door opened to reveal Commander Esther Hendricksen, Baxter's second in command. She was tall for a woman, tall and muscle-bound like the people of her homeland. She was Scandinavian by birth, and she looked every bit of it: blonde hair, blue eyes, and a snowy complexion. She was only a centimeter or two taller than Baxter, but he couldn't help but feel small in her presence. As she approached his desk she carried herself with authority. Her movements were quick and deliberate, but never harsh.

"Captain," she said. "We are nearing Miltonis VII."

"Thank you, Commander," Baxter replied, straightening himself in his seat. "I will be on the bridge shortly." He turned back to stare at the model, but Esther didn't move. She simply stood before him, arms folded behind her back and a smile on her face. Baxter raised an eyebrow at her. "What there something else, Commander?"

She hesitated, as if second guessing her intentions. "I had hoped you would accompany me," she said. "Outside of just now and your arrival we haven't spoken at all. I would like to get to know my captain at least a little before our first mission together." There was a moment of silence, and she quickly added, "If it isn't inconvenient, of course."

"Not at all," said Baxter, rising from his chair. "Actually, it's something of a relief." They moved into the hallway, walking side by side. Several paces down was the door to the turbolift. They entered together, and the doors closed behind them. "Bridge," said Baxter. The lift whirred as it began to lift them toward the roof of the Olympic's saucer section.

Hendricksen turned to Baxter. "What did you mean when you said my offer was a relief?" she asked.

Baxter's stance visibly stiffened. "To be honest with you, Commander, I was nervous about approaching the crew alone. The first day of command can be intimidating."

Hendricksen shot him a puzzled look. "But... I thought this was your second command."

"It is," Baxter replied. "I was captain of the USS DeGrasse for two years. But I had already been serving as her first officer for half a decade when Captain Ronson retired. I knew the crew, and they knew me. The Olympic is a different class of ship with a completely different crew."

Hendricksen nodded, giving him a smile that eased the tension in his chest. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Granted."

"We're all new to this ship, Captain. Everyone on that bridge is just as nervous to meet you as you are to meet them, maybe even more so. Everyone knows their job and how to do it. You give the orders, and they'll follow you anywhere."

The captain smiled back at her. "I know that, Number One. It's just easy to forget when you're shouldering these responsibilities."

The turbolift slowed and opened onto the bridge. Captain Baxter and Commander Hendricksen stepped clear, and almost everyone stopped working their stations to stand at attention. Baxter held up his hands, a gesture instructing them to return to their duties. He surveyed the bridge, testing himself to remember the names of the crew. Ensign Elaine Standish, a wiry woman with dark skin and hair, sat at the helm. Beside her at the tactical station was Lieutenant Kalva, a vulcan female who stared directly into her display with the singlemindedness that only a being of pure logic could achieve. Against the rear wall stood the final two stations. Lieutenant Commander Jeffrey Ortega stood at engineering. His features were dark and sharp, much like his mind. Security Chief Alec Simmons was at Ortega's side, chatting about something in hushed tones. Simmons had pale features and a head of fiery red hair, and even in whispers his thick highland accent was unmistakable. Finally, sitting at the science station in isolation, was Lieutenant Davii. 

Davii had been the only member of the bridge crew who had not stood at attention when Baxter had entered, though not out of any form of rebellion or disrespect. Davii could not have risen to his feet even if he had wanted to, as he did not possess any. Davii was a chromatizoid, or what some species jokingly called a "hue-man." Chromatizoids were a species of sentient telepathic colors, and they did not possess a body. Instead, Davii housed himself within a large crystal, as to better facilitate interaction with physical beings. A strange shade of blue swirled within the transparent stone, and it pulsed and swelled like a beating heart.

Baxter took his place in the captain's chair. He checked the tactical readout on the display near his left hand. A brief summary of the Olympic's current status glowed white against a black background. Each deck and airtight compartment had its own light that would change color as they were damaged, providing the captain with an at-a-glance indicator of his crew's safety. Currently everything was in order. In fact, engine efficiency was listed at 102%. Baxter was impressed with what Lieutenant Ortega had accomplished, and felt a bit of admiration for the man. It was certainly a strong first impression.

"Coming up on Miltonis VII now, Captain," said Standish, her hands flying deftly across the control panel.

"Take us into standard orbit," said Baxter. "Open a hailing frequency."

Kalva pressed a key, replying with a sharp and efficient tone. "Hailing frequency open."

"This is Captain Jason Baxter of the Federation starship USS Olympic," said Baxter. "I am here on behalf of Captain Hugo Salman."

The viewscreen blinked once, then displayed the image of a man seated at a desk. He was stout and fit, with jet-black eyes and pale skin. Despite his muscular form he sat over in a hunched, almost frightened stance. His hands were clutched together nervously in front of him, as if moving them too much might be seen as some kind of offense. "I am Governor Grota Zarr of Miltonis VII. On behalf of the brave and beautiful people of our world, I welcome you, Captain Baxter. Ah..." He smiled sheepishly and opened his hands. "You're ahead of schedule, Olympic. I hope you don't find me rude for asking, but what happened to Captain Salman?"

"Not at all," Baxter assured the governor. "Captain Salman's ship suffered an engine malfunction. He was unable to reach your planet for the established meeting time. We are here in his stead. I hope that will suffice."

Zarr rubbed the back of his head with an uneasy smile on his lips. "I suppose it must. We have been eagerly anticipating his arrival. As such, our accommodations were prepared to cater to the needs of his crew. I understand the Federation crews its ships with many different species, and we will do our utmost to respect their cultures during their stay. I hope you will bear with us as we adjust. You may beam down at your convenience. We are sending you coordinates now."

"Acknowledged. Baxter out." He severed the connection and rose from his seat. "Right. Commander Hendricksen, you have the bridge. Chief Simmons and Lieutenant Davii will accompany me to the surface. That is..." He glanced at the crystal with its pulsating core. "Are you... mobile, Lieutenant?"

"In a manner of speaking," replied the chromatizoid, his heart flickering to the rhythm of his voice. The sounds did not come from the creature, but rather washed over one's consciousness like a gentle ocean wave. His tone was soft and soothing, though with an almost lazy cadence. "I can go just about anywhere. This crystal is something of a medium. It does little more than provide more corporeal lifeforms with something physical to interact with. I find it helps to alleviate the uneasiness many humanoids experience when dealing with telepathic creatures."

"As chief science officer you have the most detailed information on Miltonis VII," said Baxter. "I would like for you to come along. What is the best way to transport you?"

Davii thought for a moment before replying. "I would need to adjust the transporter to accommodate my energized form. The task will be simpler if I inhabit a physical medium. Chief Simmons, with your permission..."

Simmons shrugged and approached the crystal. "Whatever ya need, Lieutenant."

The crystal ceased its pulsing, its hue vanishing into a pure transparency. For a moment nothing happened, and Baxter cast his gaze around the bridge. "Uh, Lieutenant?"

"Standby, sir," said the voice. "I am integrating myself. The process will be complete in a few moments."

Hendricksen stared at Simmons, watching him with wide-eyed amazement. "Chief, your uniform!"

Simmons looked down at his chest. His shirt had begun to change color, shifting from its usual vibrant yellow to a pale green, then deepening into a rich blue. Davii's voice drifted smoothly over their minds once again.

"I am ready, Captain. We may proceed."

"What've ya done to my shirt?" Simmons demanded, pulling at the collar to examine the inside.

"It is undamaged," Davii replied. "I am merely using it as a medium. This will ensure that the transporter does not disperse my energy. Once we are planetside I shall return your clothing to its original state."

"Very well," said Baxter. "Commander Hendricksen, maintain standard orbit and await our signal."

"Aye, sir," said Hendricksen.

-

As the light of the transporter beam faded and Baxter's vision returned he found himself in beautiful surroundings. He was standing in a lush indoor garden, approximately ten meters in diameter. All about him were strange, fragrant flowers and blossoming fruit trees. An artificial creek ran through the center of the space, and on either end of the garden the water disappeared beneath a marble floor. Above was a decadent frosted glass ceiling with iron bars running through, twisting into the shape of leafed branches and casting floral shadows on the grass below. The garden was ringed about with white columns that extended to the ornate ceiling above. It had a palatial, Hellenistic aura about it.

Simmons whistled at the architecture. "Impressive stuff, Captain."

"The Miltonians value botany a great deal," said the voice of Davii. "Even their spacecraft, primitive and utilitarian as they may be, are all equipped with gardening tools and facilities. The cultivation of the earth bears a spiritual significance to them."

Before Davii could elaborate further, the smiling face of Governor Zarr appeared before them. He stepped into the garden with his arms outstretched. A second man stood by his side, shorter and with a slightly darker complexion. The governor approached the landing party, and for a moment Baxter thought that he saw fear in his eyes.

"Welcome," he said. "It is an honor to have you here, Captain Baxter. I hope your stay will be a comfortable one."

Baxter took the governor's hand in greeting, returning the smile. "If your living quarters are as luxurious as your gardens, I don't doubt that it will."

Tarr's face brightened. "You like our gardens? We take great pride in them, you know."

"As you should," said Baxter. "Seeing such natural splendor mixed with architecture is a rare sight."

"You will find our world most bountiful," said the other man. "It is rich in both resources and beauty. I hope it can convince you that we are worthy of acceptance into the Federation."

Baxter regarded him with a polite nod. "I am not the one to be convinced, Mr..."

"Ah, how rude of me!" said Governor Tarr. "Allow me to introduce my personal aide, Viceroy Miskall."

"Viceroy Miskall," Baxter echoed. "I am merely here as an objective observer. My personal opinion has little bearing on the Federation's decisions, provided I am not interfered with in any way. However, speaking as a man of experience, might I make a recommendation?"

"Of course," replied the Viceroy. "Annexation would benefit us greatly. We will gladly do anything to increase our chances."

"Then I suggest that you change nothing," Baxter continued. "Go about business as usual. As I conduct my inquiries and inspections, I will be able to tell whether I'm simply being shown what I want to see. The Federation values honesty in these cases more than anything else. I know you might be eager to put on your best performance for my sake, but the less you do so the better your chances will be."

"I assure you, Captain, we have no intentions of misleading you in any way," said the governor. "Captain Salman said something similar during his previous visit. We have made no special changes outside of your accommodations. Speaking of which..." He turned to Simmons, his brow furrowing slightly. "I was told to expect three people in the landing party. Has there been a change?"

"No," said Baxter. "I suppose my science officer requires some explanation. This is Chief Simmons, my personal security detail for this mission. Lieutenant Davii is here, but... you can't see him. He is a chromatizoid."

Tarr blinked as confusion washed over his face. "I'm familiar with the concept of a chromatizoid, but I thought they were extinct."

"We are not extinct," said Davii, his soft voice smoothly fading in from the surrounding quiet. "However, we are greatly endangered. To my knowledge, there are less than two thousand of us remaining."

Viceroy Miskall's face twisted into a disgusted sneer, but he quickly buried it beneath a more passive expression. "An invisible telepath? You truly came prepared for an inspection, Captain."

"Please be at ease, Viceroy," said Davii. "I am not a mind reader or a spy. I am merely a science officer. My function is to utililize my experience with anthropology to provide Captain Baxter with insight in regards to your culture, nothing more."

Tarr gave an audibly nervous chuckle. "I am certain that even if you were a mind reader there would be no cause for concern. Miltonis VII is an open book. We have nothing to hide. Isn't that right, Viceroy?"

Miskall shot him a brief glare. "...Of course, Governor."

Tarr raised a hand toward the edge of the garden, gesturing for the others to follow him. "Let's get to business, then. The viceroy will escort your men to their quarters. Captain Baxter, if you would be so kind as to join me in my office?"

"Ah, beggin' your pardon," said Simmons, "but I must accompany the captain as long as he is planetside. In the interest o' security, I-"

"It's alright, Chief," Baxter interrupted. "You will have a chance to inspect the living quarters this way. I am certain that the governor's own security detail will be more than sufficient to keep me safe until you are finished."

Simmons's mouth opened to protest, but he cut himself off with a shake of his head. "Aye, sir. I'll make sure your lodgin' is all shipshape. Just... try an' stay out o' trouble. I'm responsible for ya, ya know."

Baxter patted his shoulder and gave a reassuring smile. "I'll be fine, Simmons. Look around you. This place is a paradise. I doubt there is anything here that will do me harm."

-

"Of course, now agriculture is our primary trade, but years ago we had a thriving industrial base as well. Much of the technology you see around you was developed more than fifty years ago." Governor Tarr gazed out the window of his office, watching as the atmospheric shuttle traffic sped by in a never-ending stream of vehicles.

"Fascinating," said Baxter, leaning forward in his seat. "Why the stagnation?"

"Oh, we don't see it as stagnation," Tarr replied. "The Ardin Council determined that our industrial work was harming our planet, depriving it of resources and elevating a select few to positions of economic power on the backs of laborers. When they came to power they restructured our economy from the ground up. Now our planet is more beautiful than ever. We see it as progress, Captain."

Baxter's eyes narrowed as he stared at Tarr's back. He couldn't see the governor's face, but his tone had been stilted and his response a bit too quick, almost rehearsed. It was as if he didn't agree with his own words. "The Ardin Council is your governing body, correct?"

"Yes," said Tarr. "They hold the real power on Miltonis VII. Viceroy Miskall is the true head of state. I am little more than a figurehead. My actual power is quite limited."

"Why is that?" asked Baxter.

The governor folded his arms behind his back and heaved a sigh. "My position dates all the way back to the first founding, over two thousand years ago. Back then our planet was fragmented, two continents divided by an ocean. Two nations rose on each one, Ardinia and Miltonia. They had drastically different environments, and so our species evolved superficial differences in order to make life here more comfortable."

Baxter nodded knowingly. "My own planet's history is not that different. We often fought one another over such petty differences in our past."

"As did we," Tarr continued. "Miltonia had rich natural resources, and it developed technology far more quickly than Ardinia. In time they conquered the entire world, uniting it under one Miltonian banner. That was the first founding of Miltonis VII. My ancestors were old Miltonians, and they were not gracious conquerors. Ardinians were often abused, sometimes murdered, and for a while they were even enslaved. One man in my bloodline even attempted a total genocide of them. But..." The governor turned to face Baxter, a mask of a smile on his face. "We have moved past that now. The descendants of Ardinia have their own place in our government, and we Miltonians have been seeking to make amends for our exploitation of their people. One of those amendments was stripping the governorship of its powers, but leaving it in place to give an appearance of stability and tradition. Many of the lesser offices have done the same. Now the Ardin Council controls most of our government. Really, the Viceroy is probably the man you will be working with the most during your stay, Captain."

"I see." Baxter rose from his seat and joined Governor Tarr at the window. "There is a lot of bloodshed in your people's past, much like mine. How do the citizens feel about one another?"

Tarr's smile became more genuine as he replied. "Our people are wonderful, Captain. You will love them. They live together in almost perfect equality. The past has been buried, and now we are all on equal footing. We're a pure democracy, and our votes are nearly always unanimous. There are a few troublesome cells here and there, but law enforcement is more than a match for them. We have very little violence of any kind. Indeed, we have achieved a near utopia."

"It sounds wonderful," said Baxter. "Almost too good to be true."

"Almost," the governor agreed with a wink. "But, if you don't mind, I would like to know more about your people. Your starships are beyond impressive. I must admit I find myself somewhat obsessed with them. Our own space travel is nowhere near as sophisticated."

"Then you would love the Olympic," said Baxter. "She is the latest in her series, an Ambassador class starship. They're the lead vessels of Starfleet, the best our current technology can produce. I'm quite proud of her as you can tell."

Governor Tarr's eyes lit up. "I hear they are armed with phaser strips, new weapons technology. Is it true?"

"It is," said Baxter. "I can't discuss all the fine details of her construction, of course. Security demands that we keep her capabilities classified."

"Of course," said Tarr with a wave of his hand. "Pardon my curiosity. I don't want to overstep any boundaries. Still, if we have time, I would very much like to visit your ship. The opportunity to go into space without the danger present in our own craft is a rare one."

Baxter patted his shoulder. "I'm sure a tour can be arranged before we depart, Governor. In the meantime, however, I must begin my observations."

"Of course," said the governor. "You're going to be quite busy. If you require anything at all, you'll know where to find me. Allow me to show you to-" A chirping sound interrupted him as a light on his desk began to blink. "Ah... a hologram call. If you would be so kind as to wait outside, I will escort you to the living quarters as soon as I finish. It shouldn't be long."

Baxter nodded. "Of course. Take all the time you need, Governor." He moved to the door and left the office without another word.

As the door closed behind him Tarr pressed a key on his desk top. "What is it, Greefa? I'm busy."

"It is nearly time," said a female voice. "Did you receive the armor plate?"

"Yes," Tarr replied.

"Did you find a way aboard?"

"Yes," said Tarr. "Tell your man to be careful. We don't want to hurt these people."

"Just be ready. Put the armor over your heart. We'll do the rest." The voice cut off as the call was abruptly disconnected. Tarr shivered with nervous anticipation. He pulled open a drawer and removed the thick steel plate contained within and slipped it into a special pocket on the inside of his jacket. The armor would sit just over his heart, and would be invisible to anyone else. With a final deep breath he made for the door, ready to lead Captain Baxter to his quarters.


	2. Chapter 2

Simmons paced the length of his room, his hands moving in and out of his pockets as he struggled to give them something to do. He wasn't used to waiting. He had always found a way to keep himself busy aboard the Olympic. His duties demanded constant attention in one area or another, a never-ending vigilance. It was tedious, exhaustive work that would rapidly exhaust any man. He loved every minute of it. Being idle had never suited him.

It was hard not to feel insulted by the captain's dismissal of him. Did he really have so little faith in him that he would rather have untested planetary guards at his side? Simmons had risen through the ranks of Starfleet's enlisted men through hard work and dedication. He had earned the honor of protecting the most valuable resource the Federation had: a Starfleet captain. He had spent years of his life tirelessly clawing his way to the top, earning one commendation after another, all in the hope of travelling aboard a starship. Now he was finally where he had always wanted to be, and the captain didn't see fit to properly utilize him. He had been brought along as a formality, just to pay lipservice to Starfleet protocol.

There was a knock at the door, and it made Simmons jump. "Come in," he said.

Two people entered side by side. The dark-skinned security guard stationed outside his door was escorting a young woman. Her skin was fair, and most of it was visible through her revealing attire. The guard nodded to him. "Your consort, sir," he said. "She will provide you with anything you desire. Welcome to Miltonis VII."

"Consort?" said Simmons, sweat rapidly beading across his forehead. "I-I was not informed of such a thing..."

The guard smiled. "It is standard courtesy to provide visiting dignitaries and their entourage with certain comforts. She will attend to you." Before Simmons could protest, the door was closed and he was alone with the woman.

Simmons was at a loss for words. The consort was beautiful and young, with raven hair that fell to her waist. A strange perfume drifted across his nostrils, and he could feel that it was designed to stimulate. Her intended function was clear, and it left the security chief aghast. He decided to try and be civil. "H-hello," he managed. "What's your name?"

"My name?" she echoed, visibly confused by the question. "Why do you wish to know that?"

Simmons shrugged, now even more uncomfortable. "Isn't that how you people get to know one another?"

"You... wish to get to know me?" She clasped her hands in front of her and bowed low. "Very well. My name is Viala. How may I please you?"

Simmons nearly choked on his own breath as his face began to burn with confused anger. "Please me? What the devil... what kind of man do they take me for?"

Viala turned her eyes away. "I've offended you. I'm so sorry!"

"No, no!" Simmons assured her. "I'm just... confused, that's all. It's not your fault, lassie. I just thought... well... this sort of behavior isn't at all what I expected of your people."

"How so?" asked Viala. "Does my appearance not please you?"

Simmons felt his gaze begin to wander over her body, but he forced himself to look her in the eye. "Ah... no, it definitely does, and that's just the problem, ya see. I'm a married man. I got a wife an' kids of my own. I can't be... tumblin' around anymore. Besides, I thought Miltonis VII had developed beyond this sort of thing."

"What sort of thing?" Viala moved in closer, her hands tracing delicately across his chest. "You fascinate me with your strange talk, Earth man."

Simmons whimpered as he pushed her hands away. "Now you listen here, lassie. I got no desire to cheat on my wife! Why are you even here? The viceroy said you people had mastered equality."

"We have," said Viala with a frown. "But some are more equal than others. I'm Miltonian. It is our role in life to serve the Ardinians."

Simmons shook his head in disbelief. "You're a slave race?"

"We are merely servants," she replied. "It's only natural."

"But... The governor looks the same as you," said Simmons.

"Yes," said Viala. "He is the greatest servant of all. He serves the Ardin Council, just as we all do. Now please, relax. I will help you forget your troubles."

"The hell you will!" Simmons ducked away as she advanced on him once again. He moved to the door and slid it open, addressing the man posted outside. "Hey there, guard man. Do ya mind takin' the young lassie away?"

"Is she not to your taste?" asked the guard.

"I just... don't have need for a consort," Simmons replied. "She would... interfere with my duties. Perhaps another time."

The guard nodded his understanding. "Very well. Let me know if you require anything further." He peered into the room and shot a glare at Viala. The consort lowered her eyes and left the room, shrinking away from the guard as she passed by him, as if expecting to be struck. The door closed and Simmons dropped onto his bed with a sigh of relief.

"Whew. That was close."

He nearly had a heart attack as Davii's voice sounded in his mind. "Fascinating. It seems their society is not as advanced as it first appears. Aspects of it have regressed significantly."

"Ah! Ya invisible bastard!" Simmons exclaimed. "You were watchin' that whole time?"

"Of course," Davii replied. "As lead science officer part of my duties is collecting anthropological information for later study."

"So... if I'd given in and started... consortin'... ya would've seen the whole thing?"

"Ah," said Davii. "My presence during your mating rituals would cause discomfort?"

"Damned right, it would!" said Simmons. "Ya don't watch another man while he's... entangled."

"Many sexually reproducing species have similar reservations," Davii continued. "I have never been able to observe one of these rituals firsthand. I had hoped humans would be the exception. My own people reproduce via fission processes, so I find the idea of mating most intriguing."

"Ach..." Simmons buried his face in his hands. "If someone had told me that my time on Olympic would be spent dodgin' skirts and bunkin' with a voyeuristic alien, I'd have turned the assignment down!"

-

The route to the guest's quarters took Baxter and Tarr through a series of courtyards, each one open to the external air. Within them were lush gardens much like the one that had first greeted the Olympic's crew. Ivy crawled its way around nearly every column, as if nature was reclaiming the structures for itself. It was beautiful, but as he was led about Baxter began to suspect that the aesthetic was not purely intentional. There were visible cracks in the masonry, disordered growths of vines, and a wall that looked ready to collapse. It seemed that the care for the plants had superseded the need for regular maintenance of the building. He thought about voicing the observation to the governor, but thought better of it. Questioning something so benign might have come across as rude, and Tarr's pleasant demeanor had endeared him to the captain.

As they walked along, Tarr began to ramble. "We have over three hundred species of flowers growing in the gardens of the palace," he was saying. "Forty varieties of trees and thousands of pollinating insects, all sourced from nature-friendly nurseries in the outlands. Since the regulation of our harmful atmospheric emissions, life has flourished all across the planet. Unlike many other races, we do not see ourselves as the sole caretakers of our world. It belongs to all living things, and we seek to ensure that life is comfortable for all."

"An admirable aspiration," said Baxter. "I'm impressed by how completely you've converted your industry in such a short time. It took my people over a century to find a unified solution to those same problems."

"The Ardin Council put forward a referendum," said Tarr. "The regulations passed by an overwhelming majority vote. We did nothing more than enact the will of the people."

"Fascinating," said Baxter. "A people totally unified in the restoration of their planet's environment. I never would have thought it possible."

"Nearly totally unified," the governor corrected. "There is still a minority who disapproves, but they are few in number. However, even I must admit that despite their insignificance they have a habit of making their voices heard."

"In what way?" asked Baxter.

As if in answer the wall beside them exploded, showering debris and rubble onto them. Three armed security guards rushed to their sides only for two of them to fall as gunfire erupted from the breach. Five men stepped through the gap, clutching primitive weapons. Baxter shook dust from his eyes and deployed his phaser. The beam arced forward toward the first attacker, only to inexplicably stop short. Before he could process what had happened the man returned fire. The gun barrel flashed repeatedly with automatic fire. Baxter braced for the hit, but it never came. He heard Tarr cry out in pain and whirled around. The governor had been knocked from his feet and was clutching his chest. Baxter rushed to his side and fired his phaser again, setting the weapon to maximum power. Once again the beam stopped just short of its target. The remaining guard fired as well, but his weapon had the same effect. One of the attackers fired a quick burst, this time in Baxter's direction. The guard's response was immediate. He stepped in front of Baxter, turning his body toward the assassins and spreading himself as wide as he could. He caught the rounds in his abdomen and collapsed against one of the columns, shivering as he clutched at himself.

"No!" shouted one the assailants. "Not at the captain, you idiot!"

"I'm sorry, sir," said the one that had just fired.

Baxter set his phaser down and raised his hands. He was now outnumbered and his weapon was useless. Fighting would be suicide. "Who are you?" he demanded. "What do you want?"

One man stepped forward, his stance and commanding movements marking him as the leader. "You're being deceived, Captain," he said. "Starfleet has no idea what's happening here. These men lie to you. Don't trust them!"

"And who would you have me trust?" asked Baxter. "Trust the men who turn guns on me over those that received me peacefully?"

The man chuckled humorlessly. "Oh, their guns will turn on you, Captain, just as they turned on us. You would be facing our planet's soldiers one way or another. We just happen to be honest about it."

"Gunfire in the secondary atrium!" Someone shouted in the distance, and the sound of approaching boots filled the corridors and courtyard. The leader glanced over his shoulder, then back at Baxter.

"Trust no one, Captain," he said, raising his finger. "All is not as clean and polished as it seems here. There are people that need your help. I'm sorry we had to meet this way, but unfortunately this is the only way to get a word in with these fools." He waved to his men, and one by one they retreated through the hole in the wall. He gave a final nod to Baxter. "The governor will live. Ask him about us. He knows who we are." With that, he turned away and followed after his men. Had Baxter known to look behind him, he would have noticed Tarr removing the armor plate from his clothing and casting it into the garden greenery.

Baxter tapped his communicator badge. "Olympic, medical emergency! Five to beam directly to sickbay!"

The captain, governor, and the wounded guards shimmered with a luminescent brilliance for a moment, and then they were gone. As the reinforcements swarmed into the garden, they had just enough time to see Tarr struggling to stand before his image dissolved into the light.


	3. Chapter 3

Dr. M'sara Norton was an anomaly, even by the standards of the Olympic's diverse crew. Half Caitian, half human, she commanded a striking visage. Her feline eyes were a sharp, glowing yellow that could instantly switch between soft affection and the intense focus of a predator. Her gaze was swift and precise, and making eye contact with her would leave one either spellbound or terrified, a fitting trait for a former combat medic. She had served as doctor among her people for six years, nearly all of it spent picking up the pieces of her own kind on various planets throughout the galaxy. The Caitians had been the apex species of their world, and their predatory nature had led them on conquests among the stars. Their acceptance into the Federation had curbed these expansions, but every Caitian was still born a natural hunter. The hunt was forever frozen in their blood, and M'sara Norton was no exception. Among her people she was known as a healer first and foremost, but with a warrior's spirit that would rival that of a Klingon, as deadly as she was beautiful.

Dr. Norton had been sorting her extensive store of medications when the alarm sounded, struggling to undo the damage some incompetent Starfleet quartermaster had done to her perfect system. The whine of the medical siren snapped her out of her task and focused her mind on her duties with an automatic widening of the eyes and bristling of her gray fur borne of years of experience with life and death struggles. As the captain and the others materialized before her on the sickbay floor she was already beginning her scans.

"Talk to me, Captain," she said, sharply.

"Gunshot wounds," Baxter replied. "All four of them were hit. Primitive weapons, automatic firearms."

Norton shook her head as she read back the data on her tricorder. "These two are dead. This one here is in critical condition. Nurse!"

A young man with trim blonde hair stepped forward. "Yes, Doctor?"

"Help me get him onto one of these beds. Captain, put pressure on that wound. Clamp it down tight and hold it in until I can get a clotting agent in him."

Baxter obeyed, pressing down on the abdomen of the Miltonian guard and holding it as the doctor and nurse lifted him onto a nearby hospital bed. Norton readied a hypospray and pressed it against the affected area, delivering a full dosage. After a few seconds the bleeding slowed, and Baxter pulled his blood-stained hands away. "Will he make it, Doctor?" he asked.

"God only knows, Captain," Norton replied. "He's hit pretty bad. Those old-fashioned weapons were designed to kill, and they did so rather well. Projectile guns didn't exactly include a stun setting."

"This man saved my life," said Baxter. "Do what you can for him."

"Nurse Bradford can handle him for now," she said. "Let's check this one next." She moved to Governor Tarr and wasted no time in scanning him. He stirred, staring up at her in shock as he took in her feline appearance. His eyes roamed across her uniform, unsure of how to process what he was seeing.

"You've... got fur..." he managed.

Norton laughed and winked at him. It was a reaction she had grown accustomed to during her time in Starfleet. "So do you," she pointed out, purring softly in the typical Caitian way as she ruffled the governor's hair. Her tricorder concluded its scan with a soft chirp. "You're fine," said Norton, straightening herself to her full height. "Not so much as a scratch. You're a lucky man." She nodded with satisfaction and returned to the guard, assisting the nurse with applying dressings, cleaning the patient's wound, and hurriedly discussing the proper medications to administer.

Tarr breathed a sigh of relief and sat himself up. Baxter crouched in front of him, running another quick check. "I could have sworn I saw them shoot you," he said.

Tarr waved the observation aside. "I played dead, Captain. If you wish to survive a terror attack, I find that it's best to show them what they want to see."

"Who were those men?" asked Baxter. "What do they want?"

Tarr sighed and stared upward at the ceiling. "I had hoped that they would keep quiet during your visit. They're a terrorist organization known as the 'Children of Freedom.' The man you met was Zorn Nater, the group's second in command. Their leader goes by the name 'Letann.' As for what they want, well..." He shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. "You'll need to speak with Viceroy Miskall about it. He's been leading the investigations. I'm little more than a mouthpiece for the Ardin Council, a familiar face to make their message more palatable to the Miltonians."

Baxter sat back and stared at the wall, shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't understand. My phaser couldn't even touch him. I've never known them to malfunction."

"Oh, I'm certain your weapon works perfectly fine," said Tarr, rubbing his quivering hands. "We learned how to defeat them years ago. Back in the times of nations and wars our weapons technology advanced beyond our capacity to use them responsibly. The loss of life was massive. Now, only the police and military are allowed to carry them, and they also wear frequency nullifiers. Energy weapons emit pulses, and the nullifiers detect the frequency being used and disperse it. Unfortunately, it seems the CoF has stolen these devices and reverted to more primitive weaponry. Projectile weapons... barbaric, monstrous things. We thought we had destroyed all of them and their factories decades ago, but it seems that we failed to find them all." He shuddered as he remembered the blasts of the automatic gunfire, how the deep roaring had thundered through his chest.

The sickbay door slid open and Chief Simmons stepped in, his uniform blue with the manifestation of Davii. "Captain!" he exclaimed. "I heard there was a shootout. Are you injured?"

"No, I'm fine," Baxter replied, rising to his feet. "Thank you, Chief. You should return to the planet and await my arrival."

For a moment Simmons said nothing, clenching his fists as he stayed where he was. "Sir," he said, trying his best not to growl. "May I speak with you in private for a moment?"

"Is it related to our mission here?"

"Yes."

Baxter nodded and gave Tarr an apologetic look. "Excuse me." He followed Simmons out into the hall, and no sooner had the door slid closed than Simmons whirled around, scowling fiercely.

"Sir, with all due respect, I must protest to being sent to the surface again."

"Why?" asked Baxter. "I thought my instructions were clear."

"Oh, they were clear enough," said Simmons, barely containing himself. "Clearly idiotic! I'm sorry, Captain, but this makes two times in the past twelve hours that you've dismissed me, an' one of 'em after an attempt was made on your life. I am your chief security officer, and it is my duty-"

"To do as you are told." Baxter interrupted calmly. "You couldn't have helped had you been there during the attack. The Miltonians have technology that renders phasers useless. You would have been killed like the others."

"That's my bloody job!" Simmons caught himself and hesitated. "Sorry, sir. It's just... how does it look when you go off somewhere an' get yourself killed, then I come waltzin' back aboard without so much as a scratch? No, sir. It simply wouldn't do. I'm the first line o' defense, an' Starfleet protocol is very clear on the subject. Runnin' the ship is your duty, Captain, an' keepin' you safe is mine. Now, with your permission, kindly stop shovin' me off an' let me do my job, because the alternative is sittin' around on my backside while the Ardinians try an' furnish me with sex slaves!" He paused, then added a final "Sir."

"The chief is being brash and emotional," said Davii, his slow and even tone contrasting starkly with Simmons's highland accent, "however, he is correct. Protocol would suggest that you keep a security detail from the ship with you whenever you join an away team of any kind. Based on my studies of human behavior, I would also point out that depriving a human of the ability to perform his assigned task is generally considered rude in most cultures."

"I understand that you wanted to show the Miltonians that you trust them," continued Simmons. "But please, sir, now that danger has well an' truly appeared, I request that you allow me to escort you when on the planet's surface."

Baxter nodded, folding his hands behind his back. "Permission granted, Chief. I will let the matter pass, but we will continue this discussion later. For now I have a more important question. Did I just hear you mention slaves?"

"Yes, sir," Simmons replied. "They tried to furnish me with one of 'em while I was waitin' on you. She was real pushy, seemed scared o' the guard. When I refused 'er, I thought the 'e was gonna hit 'er from the way she cowered around 'im."

"She had a most peculiar air about her," said Davii. "Her response to basic questions about her name and intent indicates a low sense of self worth. Based on the available data, I speculate that-"

"All very fascinating, Lieutenant," Interrupted Baxter. "But this is not a conversation for the hallway. Meet me and the officers in the conference room in ten minutes. I feel everyone should be informed of these developments. This mission has just become a thousand times more complicated, and I want every mind in my command staff working on this one."

-

The Olympic's conference room was a utilitarian design, a barren space with a single oblong table in the center and a wide viewport against the back wall. It was well-lit and its walls were pristine white, a palette meant to increase focus and avoid distractions. The bridge crew sat around the table, all listening to the report.

"Given the data collected from both Governor Tarr and Security Chief Simmons, I have reached a conclusion," said Davii, his pulsating form having returned to his crystal. "I believe that Miltonis VII is in the midst of a race war."

"I disagree," said Lieutenant Kalva flatly. "Miltonis VII is not capable of warfare. It has no standing army, no nation states, and their races have intermingled with one another. There are no indicators of any hallmarks of war. Such a conclusion is illogical."

"Not so," Davii replied with equal flatness. "Races are not always clearly outlined by genetic differences. Many cultures consider their racial identity to be a combination of physical traits and national identity. While it is true that Dr. Norton's tests have revealed that Miltonians and Ardinians have a uniform genetic base, they are still culturally divided based on a shared history. Race wars rarely share the dramatic divisions and conflicts that were exhibited by your people's split with the Romulans, Lieutenant. Take, for example, the Years of Weeping on Harke XII, or the ancient Earth Armenian Genocide. There may not be battle lines, but casualties mount on both sides and the basis is racial hatred."

"Hatred based on what?" asked Commander Ortega. "Why would these two groups of people with almost no visible differences between them want to kill each other?"

"It's their history," said Baxter. "Governor Tarr told me that Miltonians once violently oppressed Ardinians, reducing them to sub-sentient status. They were regarded as property, bought and sold like common trade goods. Now they have been granted a special interest group in the government to ensure their fair treatment. Tarr claims that this body, known as the Ardin Council, holds the true executive power."

"So what is it? Revenge?" asked Hendricksen.

"Doubtful," said Kalva. "Records indicate that equality was achieved generations ago. Few, if any Miltonians from the days of oppression are left alive. Even if we assume that revenge is their motive, there is no one to take revenge against. Those responsible no longer exist."

"And yet the Ardinians still feel slighted," said Davii. "In the absence of individuals to punish, they may have turned on the entire race."

"But the race no longer contains anyone who participated," answered Kalva. "There is no justice in such an approach. It is not logical, nor is it understandable."

"Then what is your analysis, Lieutenant?" asked Baxter.

"The data is insufficient to provide accurate analysis," Kalva replied. "The only conclusions available are speculative and illogical. I believe we need more information to form an accurate hypothesis. As of this moment we have only heard one side of the issue, the Miltonian side. We must now hear what the Ardinians have to say on the matter. Besides that, I have my doubts as to the prevalence of the issue. If slavery is a common or acceptable practice on Miltonis VII, our first contact teams would have reported it. I find it unlikely that such a detail would be overlooked, and it casts doubt on the Chief's testimony."

"What?" Simmons demanded, leaning heavily over the table. "I know vulcans can be cold, but are you completely 'eartless as well? I saw a girl almost no older than my own daughter forced into a life o' unwillin' debauchery. I have no interest in hearin' anythin' those brutes 'ave to say, an' if you want to start implyin' that I'm a liar, the you'd best be prepared to-"

"You're out of line, Chief," said Hendricksen, cutting him off. "I agree with Lieutenant Kalva. Though I sympathize with your sentiment, Simmons, that sort of reactionary thinking is likely what caused these injustices in the first place. Surely I don't need to remind you of ancient Ireland's history with racial tension and collectivism." She turned to the captain. "It may very well be that the Ardinians are acting maliciously, but we do not have enough information to know for sure. It will do us no harm to listen to their side and read between the lines."

"The real question is what do we do if they are?" said Ortega. "Slavery is outlawed in the Federation, and this planet is looking to join."

"For now we don't do anything," replied Baxter. "Until they are annexed, the Prime Directive still applies. Unwanted societal interference is forbidden on any and all non-Federation planets."

"So we'll just leave 'em as they are?" asked Simmons.

"It's not our place to interfere," said the captain. "As difficult and cold as it may seem, the Prime Directive exists for a reason. It protects us from our own hubris. Until we have more information, we cannot even know which side to choose, let alone what actions to take. Fortunately, I am meeting with Viceroy Miskall in the morning to begin the inspection proper. I will have an opportunity to question him then. Lieutenant Davii and Chief Simmons will accompany me. We will beam down at 0700 hours. Thank you all for your input. Dismissed." Everyone except Davii rose from their seats and filed through the exit door. Davii's crystal faded as he transferred his being to the bridge. As Simmons prepared to take his leave Baxter called to him. "Chief, would you mind staying a moment?"

Simmons winced but did as he was told, standing awkwardly by the table as he waited for the others to leave. Once the door had closed and silence had fallen, he began to speak. "Sir, before you begin, I would like to apologize for my conduct earlier."

"You're forgiven," Baxter replied. His expression was firm and placid, revealing nothing. He took a step toward Simmons, clasping his hands behind his back. "While everyone was getting ready I took a moment to browse your personnel file."

"Sir, my service record-"

"-Is exemplary," Baxter interrupted. "You wouldn't be aboard the Olympic if you did not deserve the posting. I was more interested in your personal history. You've been in security for your entire career. I'm curious. Why choose such a thankless career path?"

Simmons shifted uncomfortably. "I... grew up on a space station in a rough patch o' frontier space. Dodged a lot o' phaser an' disruptor fire from bandits an' raiders. Lost my mother an' father to 'em. It ain't about gettin' thanks or findin' glory for myself, captain. It's just how I live. Simple as that."

Baxter hesitated for a moment before continuing. "Chief, I believe it is I who owes you an apology. In my eagerness to show goodwill to the locals I neglected you and hindered your ability to perform your duties. I'm afraid one of my faults is to be a bit too eager to please. I show people what they want to see and tell them what they want to hear. But I noticed something in you today, Simmons. You state your opinion clearly and without fear, and I admire that in a man. I think that trait would be a perfect complement to my own disposition. From now on, I would prefer to have you along when I go planetside, and I will value your input."

Simmons let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding and smiled. "Thank you, Captain. I would be more'n 'appy to."

Baxter returned the smile with a nod. "Dismissed, Chief."

-

"I am pleased to see that you were not injured in the attack," said Viceroy Miskall as he moved to sit behind his desk. "The terrorists usually keep their activities limited to outlying towns. They attack farms and other such things. I did not anticipate them to strike in the heart of our capitol."

"Our presence seems to have made them desperate." Baxter replied, casting his gaze about the viceroy's office. It was larger than Tarr's, filled with decadent sculptures and expensive looking furniture. It was clear from the decor alone that the owner held much more wealth than his associate, if not more power as well. "An opportunity to embarrass your government in front of Starfleet would be a tempting prospect."

"So it would seem," said Miskall. He folded his hands and rested them before him on the desk. His expression was cold and calm, with an almost weasel-like quality to his demeanor as he carried on. "I sincerely hope that our little bouts of unrest do not disqualify us from consideration."

"Not in isolation," Baxter replied. "However, I have some concerns regarding other areas."

"Concerns?" Miskall echoed with a condescending chuckle. "My dear captain, you have yet to even begin your inspection. How do you have concerns already?"

"There are advantages to having a team at your side, rather than working alone," said Baxter, turning to Simmons who stood dutifully by his side. "My security chief noticed something while he was waiting in his quarters. He claims he was offered the services of a concubine."

"Nonsense." Miskall waved a dismissive hand and turned his chair toward a nearby window. "We do not have such things here."

"A Miltonian woman was sent in to my room," said Simmons, his tone pulled taught as he contained his temper. "She was dressed in almost nothin' at all, an' she made several attempts to seduce me."

"Ah. You've misunderstood," said Miskall. "She was not a concubine, or any other such barbaric thing. The woman you met was an entertainer, an employee. The only thing required of her was to ensure your comfort and well-being. Any advances she made on you were of her own free will." He shot Simmons a grin. "It seems she was quite taken with you, Chief. I can assure you, we do not keep women as sexual toys for visiting dignitaries, and our entertainers are paid well for their services."

"That may very well be," said Davii, his azure form pulsing on Simmons's uniform. "But some of her language raised questions in my mind. Understand, Viceroy, that I am an experienced anthropologist, and I notice societal patterns whenever they begin to appear. I would like to take more time in observing them, with your permission."

"Be my guest," Miskall replied, spreading his arms wide. "We have nothing to hide, Lieutenant."

"What will you be searching for, Davii?" asked Baxter.

"I have a theory," said the chromatizoid. "As Lieutenant Kalva pointed out, I require more data for said theory to bear any weight. I intend to collect that information. Viceroy Miskall, where are your entertainers housed?"

"They live on the lower levels," he replied. "Go down to the terrace level, below the main arboretum. You will find them there. Just be careful when you go down there. Few Miltonians have the mental capacity to handle telepathic communication. You might frighten the poor things to death."

"Fascinating..." Davii's hue began to fade, along with his voice as he drifted down into a tile on the floor before disappearing altogether. "Simply fascinating."

"In the meantime," said Baxter, "I would like to begin my inspection. I assume your government has some sort of founding document, a charter or constitution perhaps?"

Miskall raised an eyebrow. "Why... yes it does. Though it is in the process of being updated to fit our modern philosophies."

"Then I would like to start there. Would you be so kind as to furnish us with a copy?"

"Certainly." The viceroy tapped a key on his desk. "An odd place to begin, if you don't mind my saying so, Captain. I have economic reports, educational summaries, population satisfaction statistics, and even our demilitarization plans compiled for your convenience. Would you not rather begin there?"

"Don't worry, Viceroy," said the captain with an easy smile. "We will get to your raw data in due time. First, however, I would like the proper context. I want to know what your people hoped to achieve, and then whether or not you have succeeded. It's hardly fair to compare you to other Federation planets without first knowing what sort of people you are and were. Kindly have it sent to Lieutenant Kalva aboard the Olympic. She will provide me with a logical, unbiased report on its contents."

"Very well," said Miskall with a heavy sigh. "Is there more that I can do for you, Captain."

"As a matter of fact, there is. I would like to meet this Ardin Council I have heard so much about."

"Ah..." Miskall looked uncomfortable, as if he was about to start squirming. "I'm afraid that they are... difficult to call together at short notice."

"Oh?" Baxter raised an eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest. "I would have thought they would want to meet me. After all, I've already met Zorn Nater. I'm sure you wouldn't want my opinion of the Council to be informed purely by what he had to say about them."

"Of course not," Miskall replied, sweat visibly beading on his forehead. "I will make a few inquiries and see what I can do."

"You have my thanks." Baxter turned to Simmons and slapped him on the back. "Come along, Chief. I want to get a look at the nearby school while we wait for the Council." The two left Miskall's office together, and the viceory sank back into his seat, scowling at their backs as they exited.


	4. Chapter 4

Miskall led Baxter and Simmons down the long corridors of the Miltonian Citadel. It was an impressive building, though like every other structure on the planet it appeared ancient and places had begun to fall into disrepair. The masonry along the walls was chipped, and hairline fractures covered it like a web. Baxter let his finger drift absently along its surface, feeling dust cover his hand as the stone crumbled at his touch.

"I think your citadel might be overdue for some maintenance," he said.

"The building has stood here for two hundred years," Miskall replied. "It will stand for a thousand more."

"Without regular upkeep?" said Simmons with a shake of his head. "Don't you have masons an' craftsmen?"

"We have dedicated ourselves to other pursuits," said Miskall. "Our people no longer crush the earth beneath our bootheels as the Miltonians once did. Industry was choking our planet, stripping it down to bare rock. We Ardinians saved the Miltonians from their own ignorance. The Ardin Council has forbidden things like large scale construction and manufacturing."

"So what do your people do now?" asked Baxter. "If industry was widespread enough to threaten your climate, then millions of people must have been working those businesses. Where did they go?"

"They work the fields," Miskall replied. He tucked his hands into his sleeves as he continued walking. "As we told you before, we have dedicated nearly all of our resources to agriculture. We believe in working with the natural order, not against it."

"And they went along with this willingly?" said Baxter, raising an eyebrow. "Their entire livelihood was stripped away and replaced. That can cause violence."

"They didn't dare," said Miskall. "No Miltonian may strike an Ardinian. To do so would be to identify with the racists and Miltonian supremacists that make up that rebel group you encountered. There was no violence. When the time came for change, they saw reason and went willingly. A few obstinate souls ran away to join the traitors, but those that left the factories did so of their own volition."

"I'm curious about the Miltonians," said Baxter. "They oppressed the Ardinians in the past, I understand. Now they have seen the error of their ways."

"Not at all." Miskall's tone went darker, his tongue sharpening his words. "Miltonians are racists. It is in their very nature to seek to oppress others. Their entire history is marked with it. Everything they ever built or accomplished was on the backs of others. They have no culture or identity of their own, as they pulled whatever they pleased from other cultures and pretended it was theirs. Many of the more extreme Ardinians believe they should have all been eliminated on Justice Day. The Ardin Council, however, treated them with compassion. We let them keep their government and we gave them a more fulfilling existence by teaching them to live in harmony with nature. The Council is more than a governing body, Captain. It is a force for moral good. I am certain you will find many similarities between them and Starfleet."

"We will see," Baxter replied. "You mentioned Justice Day. Is that a local holiday?"

"It is." The edge left Miskall's voice. "Justice Day is an annual celebration of the Justice March. It was the day the Ardin Council was formed, the day we ended our oppression and made Miltonis VII into the paradise you see before you. In fact, the celebration is in three days. You should be able to observe the festivities for yourself. The Council has agreed to meet with you in the next room. Through here, Captain."

The door was wider than the others, a set of two. Their surfaces were covered in ornate symbols, arranged in an ordered manner that suggested a deep significance. As they split apart to allow entrance, Baxter got the impression of a coat of arms or state seal. The room beyond was brightly lit and pristine, the walls made of impeccably crafted marble. Globes of light hung from the ceiling in a pattern that Baxter recognized as a map of the local constellations. Unlike the rest of the building, this room showed no signs of disrepair. It was clean, without even a hint of nature's slow reclamation. A great wooden table was in the center of the room, and seated in high-backed chairs all around it were four women and three men. They wore simple green silk robes with no adornments, a simple and unassuming look for such a powerful governing body. Baxter made a polite bow as he stood before them, and Miskall indicated him with an outstretched arm.

"Good people of the Ardin Council, I present Captain Michael Baxter and Security Chief Simmons of the USS Olympic."

A woman seated near the head of the table rose from her seat. "Welcome, Captain. I am Viceroy Shalim. We are honored by your presence."

"The honor is mine," Baxter replied, straightening himself. "It has come to my attention that this council wields a great deal of power on Miltonis VII."

"Yet you wield the power of Starfleet," said another woman on his left. "That fact alone gives you great authority here."

Michael smiled at her. "Indeed. Yet your command over your people dwarfs any influence I have over the actions of Starfleet. In fact, it is that very thing that has brought me to you." He turned to face the entire assembly before he continued. "The Federation has been on uneasy terms with other factions for centuries now. As such, we are increasingly careful about what planets we allow to join us. It is in both our best interests that I inform my superiors of your system of government, as well as your general sociological status."

"Of course," said one of the men. "But all of that can be provided by Viceroy Miskall. I assume the true reason you called on us is that you have seen something that concerns you. I have read the reports presented by you, Chief Simmons. I apologize that our entertainer caused you emotional distress. You may rest assured that she has been dealt with."

"Dealt with?" Simmons echoed. "I didn't..." He caught Baxter's gaze out of the corner of his eye and cut himself short. "I mean, I... understand..."

"You are most observant, sir," said Baxter. "I do indeed have some concerns. It seems that your society is quite divided."

"Not at all," said Shalim. "Our people are totally united in their support for our state."

"Yet you separate yourselves based on ethnic and cultural lines," Baxter countered. "Or do you wish to deny the obvious inequalities between Ardinians and Miltonians?"

"We do not deny the inequality," said another man. "We simply deny your interpretation of it. What you perceive as division is nothing more than justice, justice for the centuries of death and despair that the Miltonians forced Ardinians to suffer through. The Miltonians know their wrongdoing, and now they willingly surrender their rights as penance. You've spoken with one of them yourself, Chief Simmons. Surely you can see that we did not force this upon them."

"I was born on a planet called Turkana IV," Simmons replied slowly. "I know a thing or two about how people give their lives away, an' I know what slavery looks like. Those caught up in it almost never speak out against it openly. They've been conditioned, mentally broken down to see their imprisonment as a good thing. Some are in it for protection, others out o' a twisted sense o' loyalty, but they all got that same look in their eyes, an' that's the look that I saw in that girl."

"Careful what you say," said one of the women. "You are our honored guest here, but you have accused us of holding slaves. That is a serious allegation."

"I trust my chief," said Baxter flatly. "He can be brash and outspoken, but he was placed in his position for his strong instincts." He shot a quick smile at Simmons. "His record speaks for itself. If he sees signs of such a practice here, then it would be negligent of me not to investigate."

"You will find nothing," said another man. "The Miltonians are the ones who practiced slavery. Why would we follow in their footsteps now that the racism that caused it has been conquered?"

"How has racism been conquered?" asked Baxter. "It appears to me as though you still hold your race to be superior to theirs. Is that not racism?"

"Not at all," said Shalim. "Racism is a purely Miltonian trait. Ardinians are not capable of it. It is a one-way road, Captain. It refers to discrimination and persecution of Ardinians, just as it always has. It was a systemic government that abused its power to hold us down. By definition our people are no longer racist, and they could never be."

"So what do you call this?" Baxter demanded. "Your own council is a system designed to oppress Miltonians, is it not?"

"Of course it is," said one of the women. "But we do not oppress them for what they are, as they once did to us. We oppress them for what they have done. They agreed to accept these conditions of their own free will. Our Ardinian ancestors were given no such choice."

"To an outsider such as yourself, Captain," Shalim continued, "I can see how strange this all must look. We are not despots or tyrants. We came to this system through a democratic process. The records are all there. An overwhelming majority voted in favor of this."

"Impossible," said Simmons. "No people would willingly vote for such a thing! I want to see those records."

"We have already sent them to your officers aboard your starship," said Miskall. "I recommend that you review them thoroughly before you pass judgement on us."

"And before you make your report to Starfleet," Shalim added. "You must understand that we are not the monsters you assume we are, Captain. If you could have seen the horrors of what the Miltonians did, you would not judge us so harshly. Many Ardinians wanted revenge for all that they had suffered. An active and militant wing of radicals called for genocide. Genocide! We were merciful to the Miltonians. We granted them protection and allowed them a place in our society. Surely mercy is a virtue that the Federation can respect."

"It is," Michael replied. "Thank you for your time, good people. I will return to my ship and discuss your position with my crew." He bowed, and turned to leave the chamber. As he and Simmons withdrew, Shalim called after them.

"We know that you spoke with Zorn Nater, Captain. Take care. That man is not to be trusted. He is a murderer and a terrorist. He will say anything to try and turn you against us. Not a word of it is true."

Baxter paused and replied with a glance over his shoulder. "Thank you for your concern, Viceroy. I will bear that in mind."


	5. Chapter 5

"I dinnae understand it," said Simmons as he stared at the text on the view screen in front of him. He sat at the conference table with his head in his hands as he studied the words of the Miltonian records. "Everythin' about this referendum makes no bloody sense!"

"The voter security systems are extensive," said Kalva evenly. "Every Miltonian is subjected to DNA and retinal identification as well as an automated vitals scan before their vote is cast. Under this system, a fixed outcome is nearly impossible to guarantee. Logic would indicate that these results, however strange to our outside perspective, are valid."

"They can't be!" Simmons insisted. "No one willingly votes away their rights an' freedoms! You want to talk about logic, Lieutenant? How logical is it to vote against your own self interest?"

"If my time among humans has taught me anything, Chief, it is that when decisions are made, logic is rarely a factor," Kalva replied.

Simmons fumed, his face turning deep crimson at her underhanded comment. Before he could respond Commander Hendricksen stepped in. "It's possible that they voted this way under some form of duress," she said. "Perhaps they were threatened, or they simply felt it was their safest option for one reason or another."

"I have an observation," Davii replied gently. "I do not believe duress is necessary. My anthropological studies have revealed certain trends and patterns exhibited by this society. I believe these people are afflicted with a deep sense of self loathing."

"Self loathing?" echoed Baxter.

"Indeed," Davii continued. "These people have been taught since birth that they have an original sin, that they are descended from monsters who have done evil deeds, and that the guilt of their ancestors is now living within them. This sort of shift is not one that can be achieved overnight. It requires years of subversion, gradual changes in a society's education and value systems. Perhaps you are familiar with the old Earth analogy of a frog in a pot of water?"

"What do amphibians have to do with this society?" asked Kalva.

"It's an ancient human proverb," said Ortega. "If you drop a frog in a pot of boiling water it'll jump right back out again. But if you increase the temperature slowly, little by little, it'll just sit there and let itself be cooked to death. The idea is that we don't notice things changing until it's too late to do anything about it."

"Brutal, yet apt," said Davii. "I believe that the Ardinians did much more than rise above oppression. I believe they conquered the Miltonians through subversion."

"But why?" asked Baxter. "They could have had true equality. Why not just take it?"

"Simple, Captain," replied Kalva, nodding to herself as she began to understand Davii's point. "Equality was never their intent. What we see before us is not their benevolence, but rather a form of revenge. They wish to make the Miltonians servile just as they used to be."

"Why not just conquer them outright?" asked Hendricksen. "Surely that approach would be quicker and simpler. Why all this cloak and dagger?"

"I cannot say for certain," said Davii. "Perhaps they lacked the strength to overthrow the Miltonians. Perhaps they find satisfaction in breaking the minds of their former oppressors."

"I think it is more likely that it is simply because the approach is logical," said Kalva. "It offers the greatest chance of success with the lowest amount of risk."

"Now the question is what we do about it," said Simmons. He rose from his seat and leaned over the conference table. "Captain, these people are in bondage. We've got to help them."

"I'm afraid that's impossible, Chief," said the captain. "This is an internal affair of Miltonis VII. The Prime Directive does not allow us to interfere."

"But sir!" Simmons pounded a fist on the table. "There are basic rights bein' violated down there! How are we supposed to turn our backs on 'em?"

"The captain is right," said Hendricksen. "Unless they ask us for assistance directly, there's nothing the Federation can do for the Miltonians."

"The Miltonians may be unable to request help," Davii pointed out. "If their culture has truly been subverted to the point where they have accepted their guilt, they may be ignorant of their own rights. It is possible that these people don't even realize that they are slaves."

"Puts us in a tight spot," said Ortega. "We know that it's wrong, but to these people it's just the way things are. If we interfere it could cause years of conflict, might even do more harm than good."

"We will not interfere," said Baxter firmly. "I've seen enough now to make a report to Starfleet. The Federation would never accept a planet still struggling with issues of racial equality, let alone one with outright slavery."

"Don't be so sure, Captain," said Kalva. "The Ardinians and Miltonians both deny that this is slavery. Both sides have accepted it as normality. It is possible that the Federation may see this as a purely internal affair and accept Miltonis VII as it is."

"The Federation I signed up to serve would never stoop to that level," Baxter insisted, folding his arms across his chest. "Perhaps the logical approach is to ignore the injustice and accept the benefits of an alliance, but the Federation has high entry standards for a reason. Once the injured guard in sickbay has recovered we will return him to the surface, then I will write out my report to Starfleet and we will return to Federation space. Dismissed."

-

Dr. Norton sat in her office chair, idly rocking back and forth as she nursed a glass of synthoholic vodka. It had been a long day of reorganizing and tending to the injured, and she had finally managed to find a couple hours to relax before heading to her quarters for the night. Her shift had ended twenty minutes ago, and she could have easily slipped off to bed, but there was something strangely satisfying about unwinding in an office. Having spent days on end in the place doing nothing but mentally taxing work, it felt good to use the space for a little recreation, however brief. It felt like she was able to assert her dominance over the place, to truly make it her own.

The chime of the doorbell made her sigh, and she muttered to herself, "It was nice while it lasted," then said loud enough to be heard, "Come in."

Captain Baxter stepped through the door, and Norton felt herself flush with embarrassment. Her old combat training kicked in, and she dropped her glass of vodka on the floor, snapped to attention, and placed her fist on her chest in a Caitian salute. Baxter froze, unsure of how to respond. He wasn't used to being saluted. Starfleet doctrine didn't call for such formal gestures, only the appropriate titles and respect for authority. He awkwardly returned the salute and said, "At ease, Doctor."

Norton realized her mistake and dropped her hand to her side, shuffling her feet. "Sorry, Captain. I... didn't want to look like I was drinking on the job."

"On the job?" Baxter smiled as he raised an eyebrow. "Your shift is over, isn't it? You can do as you please."

"Yes... Yes, you're right." Norton slumped into her chair and sighed heavily. "My mind isn't in a steady place at the moment, sir. It's been a very tiring day." She managed a weary smile and leaned forward onto her desk. "How can I help you?"

"If you're tired it can wait until morning," said Baxter.

Norton waved the offer away. "You're not a bother, Captain. I was just enjoying a little quiet time before turning in. Sit down. Join me."

Baxter sat across from her, took a moment to get comfortable in the padded chair, then met her gaze. "I just wanted to ask..." His voice trailed off as he felt his focus slipping away. Norton's eyes were so strange and absorbing, a strange hybrid of humanoid and cat-like qualities. He lost his train of thought and blushed heavily as Norton grinned back at him.

"Yeeees?" she purred slowly, with just a hint of amusement.

"Uh... Sorry." Baxter shook his head and tried again, making a conscious effort to get the words out. "I wanted to ask about the status of your patient. How is he?"

"He'll live," Norton replied, leaning back in her chair. "It's been a long time since I saw a gunshot wound, Captain. Nasty business. People weren't nearly as concerned about being humane back when those were popular. He lost a lot of blood. Fortunately, they're similar enough to humans to accept a transfusion. He lost a kidney as well, and three of his lower vertebrae have been powderized. He'll live all right, but walking?" She shook her head. "Very unlikely. He'll be paralyzed from the waist down, probably for life."

Baxter nodded. "Any idea when it'll be safe to send him home?"

"I'd like to keep him a couple more days for observation," Norton replied. "Just so I can be sure that he's settling in alright. You should have a talk with him tomorrow. He's wanted to meet you."

"I owe him a great deal," said Baxter. "He gave up his life as he knew it for me, a total stranger. That kind of selflessness is rare in this universe."

"He's a sweetheart," Norton agreed. "Young, too. Younger than anyone on our crew roster, in fact. It's a shame that his life will be so limited now."

"Can the damage to his spine be repaired?" Baxter asked.

"Not out here," said Norton. "That kind of damage requires tech and specialists you'll only find at an experimental institute. Unless he wants to travel halfway across the quadrant, he's going to be sitting for the rest of his life."

"I'll bring up the possibility when I speak with him tomorrow." Baxter sighed deeply and ran his fingers through his hair. "This was supposed to be a simple observation mission, a perfect warm-up for a brand new crew. I knew that I would need to make difficult decisions as a Starfleet captain, but I didn't anticipate having so many things happen on my first outing. People have died because of our presence, and we have a whole tribe of people living in self-imposed slavery. Everyone on this ship is looking to me to make the right decision, as if I'm the sole authority on the morality of our position. Now that I've made it... I don't know if I was right or not." He shook his head and chuckled humorlessly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to burden you with my own problems."

M'sara smiled as she rose from her seat and walked over to the replicator set in the office wall. "Don't worry about that, sir," she said. "People tend to say things to their doctor that they won't tell anyone else. Maybe it's the promise of confidentiality. I'm diagnosing you with stress and prescribing some relaxation. Let me get us something." She pressed a key on the replicator then spoke to it. "Synthetic vodka, room temperature."

The replicator hummed for a moment as the requested beverage materialized on the tray. She lifted the glass and set it aside, then looked at Baxter, awaiting his order.

"Cow's milk, warm," he said.

Norton raised an eyebrow, but repeated his request to the replicator. Once it produced the drink she carefully handed it to the captain. For a brief moment their fingers touched, and Baxter felt the intense softness of her fur. He thanked her, suddenly feeling hoarse, and took a sip. M'sara sat lazily on the surface of her desk and took a long gulp from her glass.

"I discovered this drink several years ago," she said. "I was at Starfleet Academy in San Fransisco when I bumped into an elderly commander at the bar. He talked with me for hours and hours, telling me all these impossible stories about the adventures he'd had aboard a starship. I was still a fairly young cadet at the time, so of course I hung off his every word. Looking back, I think he was just a lonely old man looking for some female company, but he was sweet and respectful. Before he left for the night he introduce me to this drink, saying something like, 'It is greatest Russian inwention.' I hated the taste at first, but for some reason I haven't been able to give it up ever since. It makes me feel warm and at peace. You should try it sometime."

"I've tried many of Earth's drinks," said Baxter. "I've also tried dozens of beverages from other planets. They all seem to have the same problem. Sooner or later the sensations leave and I wake up feeling empty inside. I know they say synthohol doesn't intoxicate, but I always seem to make foolish choices whenever I drink it."

"Oh?" purred M'sara. "Such as?"

Baxter glanced at her. She was giving him a coy look, a strange playfulness in her eyes. She was lounging on the desk now, propped up on one elbow. Her mane had fallen around her shoulders and it covered half of her face. Her smile was casual and relaxed. Something in her posture felt inviting, too inviting. Baxter's heart skipped a beat and he felt his ears begin to burn. He practically sprang up from his seat and downed the rest of his milk with a single gulp.

"I... Uh..." he stammered, suddenly overcome with the urge to flee. "I should really be... be going. I've got... reports. Reports to file, I mean."

M'sara straightened herself and sat upright, her smile fading. "I'm sorry," she said. "Was that a sensitive subject? I didn't mean to-"

"No, no!" Baxter slowly began to back away, moving toward the door. "I just... forgot a few things. Thank you for your time, Doctor." With that he slipped out the door, leaving M'Sara alone in her office.

Norton sighed as she stared blankly at the wall, wondering if she had said something wrong. She looked down at the half-empty glass in her hand and frowned, then drank down what remained. She waited for the relaxing sensation to overcome the tension she now felt, but it never came. Annoyed, she set the glass down on the replicator tray and left the office, making her way to her quarters.


	6. Chapter 6

Hendricksen sighed to herself as she lounged in the captain's seat. The late shift was almost always the most dull time on the bridge. There was nothing to do but watch the gauges and stations for fluctuations which never seemed to appear. Of course this was for the best, as it meant the Olympic was functioning perfectly. Sudden changes to the sensor readings usually indicated a system failure in one of the vital components, and those kinds of failures typically meant disaster in space. Starship malfunctions were rare, but they did happen, and so Hendricksen sat on the bridge with Kalva and Davii, two of the least talkative crewmates she had ever served with. Kalva rarely answered questions with more than a single word, and Davii had trouble with any topic that wasn't scientific in nature.

Hendricksen cast a glance at the door to the captain's ready room. Baxter had entered the room when she had relieved him hours ago, saying that he wanted to take something back to his quarters with him, but he had yet to reappear. She thought for a moment, then finally rose from her chair and spoke to Kalva.

"Lieutenant Kalva, take the bridge. I'm going to check on the captain."

"Yes, ma'am," Kalva replied.

Hendricksen walked over to the door and pressed a key on the panel. The computer chirped, and a moment later she heard Baxter's reply. "Come in."

Baxter was sitting at his desk, his feet resting on its surface. In his hands he held a datapad, but he wasn't reading it. He held it just below his lips, idly bouncing the upper edge off of his chin as he stared out into the stars. He snapped himself back to reality as Hendricksen entered, pretending to read his pad. She approached his desk stiffly, unsure of what to say. After a second of awkward silence she cleared her throat.

"Feeling alright, sir?" she asked.

"I'm fine, Commander," he replied, looking up from his datapad to make eye contact with her. "Is something wrong?"

Hendricksen hesitated, suddenly unsure of herself. "Umm... Captain, as your first officer I feel that I should point out that you haven't slept in over twenty-four hours."

"I know." Baxter sighed as he set his pad down on his desk and ran a hand over his eyes. "You're right. I should turn in. I just... don't think I'll be able to sleep."

Hendricksen nodded her understanding. "The Miltonians?"

"My decision was by the book," said Baxter. "I know that my hands are tied, that acting would do more harm than good and yet..." He suddenly stood and turned away, his hands folded behind his back. "It doesn't feel like the right thing to do. I think about the lessons I learned in the Academy, all the stuffy old admirals in their bright red coats lecturing me about the Prime Directive and the immorality of interference. I always thought they were up-tight and unimaginative, men and women who had lost their edge. But every single one of them had a field command at one time or another. Many of them stood where I stand now, faced with a decision like this one. If anyone could ever know what to do it would be them. I asked myself what my old professor would do, and I knew she would have made the same call I did. But there's a part of me that can't reconcile it." He turned back to face Hendricksen and said, "May I ask you something personal, Commander?"

"Of course, Captain," she replied.

"If you met someone who was trapped in an abusive relationship, one that was clearly damaging them, and they truly believed that it was good and healthy for them, would you intervene?"

"Yes," said Hendricksen firmly. "It might not be my place, but I would. Sometimes people are too close to a situation to know what is best for them."

"And yet it is their decision to stay," said Baxter, "not yours. You would rob them of their rights for their own good?"

"I know better than they do what's good for them," Hendricksen replied. "If they want to harm themselves then they can't be trusted with those rights."

"That's just it," said Baxter, holding up a finger and beginning to pace back and forth across the ready room. "That sort of thinking is how the Ardinians justify their own actions. It's been used to inaugurate tyranny on nearly every civilised world at some point in its history. The destructive social programs of the early twenty-first century were based on the idea that individuals couldn't be trusted with the freedom of choice. People would choose to hurt themselves by drinking the wrong kind of drinks or by refusing to wear protective equipment, and so these things were either outlawed or mandated by law, the decision made for them with the justification that it was for their own good. If we force our laws and views on Miltonis VII, how are we any different?"

"But the correct way is so obvious," Hendricksen argued. "These people haven't been given a real choice. They're enslaved against their will, no matter what the voting records say. If they had the ability they'd be begging us for help."

"Are you certain?" asked Baxter. "Would you bet your life on it? Perhaps, but what about the thirteen million lives on that planet? Say that we do decide to help the Miltonians break their chains and rise up once again. Are you willing to shoulder the burden of all the deaths the resulting conflict would bring?"

Hendricksen faltered, pausing as she searched for a response. After a moment she said, "I don't know."

"Of course you don't," said Baxter. "The question is an unfair one. No one should have to make that kind of choice, and not one of us could. What gives us the right to decide the fates of so many? Who are we to come in and rewrite entire worlds as we see fit?"

Hendricksen shook her head. "Alright, so you've justified your decision. How does it make you feel?"

"Terrible!" Baxter slammed his fist down on the desk, rattling the datapad and setting a decorative Newton's cradle into motion. The captain took a moment to collect himself, then dropped himself heavily into his chair. "My conscience refuses to listen to reason," he said. "No matter how hard I try I can't shake this feeling that I'm somehow still wrong." He looked up at Hendricksen, his expression tired and sorrowful. "I'd almost hoped you'd be able to convince me to do something else, anything else. I feel like I'm missing something, like I'm passing judgement without having all the facts. I don't know how the Miltonians truly feel about their condition, and I don't think they can ever really tell me."

"I agree," said Hendricksen. "Anyone who feels discontent is probably too afraid to speak up."

"That leaves me with only one option," said Baxter. "I'm going to have to speak with Zorn Nater."

Hendricksen raised an eyebrow. "The terrorist? He tried to kill you the last time you met."

"No," said the captain. "He had me at gunpoint, and my phaser was useless. If he'd wanted me dead he could easily have ended me, but he let me go. I think he attacked the palace because it was the only way to have a chance to speak with me. Maybe he's not a terrorist at all, but a Miltonian who spoke up. If we want their side of the story, then I believe we should start with him."

"His group is in hiding," said Hendricksen. "The Ardinians have been looking for them for decades without any luck. How are we supposed to find them?"

"We might not have to," said Baxter. "If I'm right about them, then they'll find me. All I've got to do is go for a walk somewhere where there aren't any guards around. Davii explored the city during our first visit. I'll ask him where I should go."

"Simmons won't be too pleased about that," said Hendricksen, crossing her arms. "And neither am I. It's too risky, Captain. If something were to happen to you down there-"

"Then you'd be captain of the Olympic," Baxter interrupted, rising from his seat once more. "You'd face the same decision as me and ultimately make your report and leave the Miltonians to their fate. The ship and crew would be perfectly safe. I'm willing to put my life on the line for this if there's any chance that we can make a difference here."

"Part of my duties as First Officer is to protect you, Captain," said Hendricksen, her voice taking on a firm and commanding tone. "I can't let you leave the ship and surrender yourself to a group of armed insurrectionists."

"But you will," Baxter replied, "because you care about these people as much as I do." He moved from behind his desk and stood before her, forced to look up to make eye contact. He smiled reassuringly as he placed a hand on her muscled shoulder. "You're proving to be a fine first officer, Commander, but this is the sort of thing a captain does. If I thought they would kill me then I wouldn't go. I know we've only served together for a few days, Hendricksen, but as your captain I'm asking you to trust me."

She met his gaze for nearly a full minute, her brow furrowed and eyes narrow. Finally her eyes dropped and she nodded her head. "I'll trust you, sir," she said. "On one condition."

"Oh?"

She locked eyes with him again, a faint hint of a smile playing around her lips. "Return to your quarters and get some sleep," she said. "Can't have you nodding off while talking with terrorists."

Baxter laughed, rubbed at his eyes wearily, and said, "Very well, Commander. I accept." 

They exited the ready room together, and Baxter gave her a parting wave as he made his way to the turbolift. Hendricksen returned to the command seat. Kalva looked over her shoulder, her eyebrow raised and her expression unreadable, then without a word she turned back to her control panel. Davii absently hummed an alien tune, his crystal pulsing hypnotically.


End file.
